Like the work of Dr. Frankenstein, the artistry of the Manual Cinema collective is meticulously handcrafted. In collective co-founder Drew Dir's shadowy, beguiling concept, Frankenstein and his creation are embodied by five puppeteers who share the stage with a quartet of live musicians (playing clarinets, flutes, cellos) and phantasmagoric creations of wood, cloth, paper and shimmering, live film feeds. There will be no Boris Karloff/Fred Gwynne/Peter Boyle representations here, and absolutely no computer-generated imagery. Instead, Mary Shelley's 1818 story of a father, a son and the monstrous harm they inflict on each other will unspool with low-tech, high-impact artistry. It's alternate reality, old-school-style.

Playwright Holter calls the fifth entry in his seven-play Chicago Cycle a "Star Warsian political musical comedy drama epic." Then he adds a qualifier: "I know. I'm a dork." Agree to disagree. Like the rest of the cycle ("Prowess," "Sender," "The Wolf at the End of the Block," "Exit Strategy" and the planned spring premieres of "Lottery Day" and "Red Rex") "Rightlynd" is—as Holter puts it—"deep with Chicago lore." Set in the fictional 51st Ward, it follows a young alderwoman who sets out to do good and finds herself mired in a system that seems engineered to do otherwise. Holter's career is thriving despite (or because of) his wholesale disregard for advice from would-be mentors. "I've been told by heads of theaters here that plays set in Chicago don't do well in Chicago," Holter says. "I don't think that's true." Neither do audiences. Chicago Cycle plays have a history of selling out.

The world lost track long ago of the hundreds—perhaps thousands—of women who have disappeared or turned up dead in the desert borderlands along northern Mexico's Ciudad Juarez. Gomez grew up in El Paso, Texas, a short drive from the Mexican town square where a sea of pink crosses memorialize them. In "La Ruta," Gomez creates a living memorial for these women, focusing not on their deaths but on their lives. If you saw his horror hit "The Displaced," you know he wields words like a vise, incrementally increasing the tension until you suddenly realize you've forgotten to breathe. The dead of Ciudad Juarez can't speak. Consider "La Ruta" a long overdue scream.

In 1996, Gilman's "The Glory of Living" landed like a supernova inside the minuscule confines of a (now-defunct) suburban theater. Since that tale of a serial killer and the woman in his thrall, Gilman has become one of the nation's most produced playwrights, churning out contemporary classics (the unilaterally praised "Spinning Into Butter" and "Boy Gets Girl") and the occasional massive misfire (the roundly condemned "The True History of the Johnstown Flood"). With "Twilight Bowl," she turns to, yes, a bowling alley. The drama started as a commission from the collegiate world's Big Ten Theatre Consortium. "They had all these woman in theater and not enough roles for them," Gilman recalls. "So the job was, write a play with good roles for women." Gilman also credits ESPN for inspiration. "I've always been struck by how fascinating and badass women bowlers are," she says.

Bandealy wrote his first play at 11. He tied it up with a blue hair bow and presented it proudly to his school principal, who promptly compared it to "The Satanic Verses" and threw it away. At 39, Bandealy's "Act(s) of God"—a family drama with otherworldly complications—harks back to his grade-school efforts. "It's a simple idea. Three acts. First act, God is coming. Second act, God is here. Third act, God has left the building," Bandealy says. "That's sort of the play I wrote when I was 11. But without all the fart jokes. And there's an operatic aria." As an actor, Bandealy has been a striking presence for years, often at Lookingglass. "Act(s) of God" marks his debut as a playwright there. "It's a microcosmic take on a macrocosmic issues," he says. "I feel like we're in an incredibly divisive time right now in this country. My hope is that with this play, people will turn and look their neighbors in the eyes. But as long as no one is bored, I'll consider it a success."